by Tim O'Rourke
“No, remind me,” I told the man, my heart racing. “I must have missed that history lesson.”
“Well go look it up,” the man snapped, tired now of our ignorance.
“We know a town called Wasp Water,” Isidor cut in. “We’ve been there.”
Then, taking the cigar from the corner of his mouth, the sweaty-looking man said, “You’ve been to Wasp Water, you say?”
We both nodded at him.
“You lie,” the man gasped.
“Why do you say that?” Isidor asked him.
“Because he would have never let you leave,” the man whispered and peered about the shop just in case someone we hadn’t seen might be listening.
“Who?” I asked him, my mouth turning dry.
“The one and only human the wolves have welcomed into their pack,” the man explained.
“What’s his name?” Isidor pushed.
With his jowls wobbling from side to side, the man shook his head and said, “No one knows his name — not his real name. Where have you two been for the whole of your lives? I can’t believe you’ve never heard of the Wolf Man — the only human to live amongst the wolves. Now get out before I change my mind.”
“About what?” Isidor asked him.
“Putting your advert up in my window,” he barked.
“But I thought you said it was weird,” I said.
The man glanced up from the words written on the advert and said, “Maybe it’s time I pushed back?”
Chapter Twelve
Kiera
“Potter!” I gasped. “You scared the hell out of me!” and although he had scared me, I was so glad to see him again. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. He kissed me back, but there was something wrong, it was like he was holding something back somehow.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him, looking into his dead, black eyes. Rain dripped from his chin and ran over his naked chest and down his stomach.
“Let’s get out of the rain,” he said, leading me towards the summerhouse. We climbed the steps. Potter pushed against the white wooden door and it squealed on rusty hinges as it opened. He closed it behind us and for a moment, I stood in the centre of the small, wooden building and listened to the sound of the rain drum against the roof. Potter came towards me, and with the flat of my hand, I brushed the raindrops from his face, shoulders, and chest. His skin seemed to tighten and mine tingled as I touched him. He took my hands in his and bringing them up to his mouth, he kissed them. It had been a while since I had sensed such emotional sentiment from him.
“Potter, what’s wrong?” I breathed.
“The world really has changed since we left it, or came back to it,” he said. “I don’t really know which it is.”
“What’s happened?” I asked. “Apart from the name changes and the logo on my iPod…”
“That’s nothing,” he cut in. “I mean, the world has really changed.”
“How?” I asked, my heart now beginning to race.
Potter let go of my hands and ran his fingers through his hair. Then staring at me, he said, “It’s my worst nightmare.”
“What is?” I almost screamed at him, just wanting to know what he had seen on the other side of the manor walls.
“Wolves are living amongst the humans,” he whispered.
“But they always have,” I reminded him. “Just like the Vampyrus lived amongst the humans.”
“Those Vampyrus and Lycanthrope that lived amongst the humans before, lived in secret,” Potter said. “The humans never knew of their existence. The humans never knew that the people who were murdering them and their children were Lycanthrope who were living in secret amongst them. Only the Vampyrus knew that, and it was my job to track them down and punish them for their crimes. But there aren’t any Vampyrus anymore and it’s like there never was.”
“How do you mean?” I asked him, the sound of the rain beating off the roof of the summerhouse now growing louder.
“It’s like the Elders changed history somehow when they snatched all the Vampyrus back and sealed The Hollows forever,” Potter started to explain. “With no Vampyrus to keep the Lycanthrope in check, they’ve left their hiding place beneath the Fountain of Souls and now live openly amongst the humans as their equals somehow. Where the Vampyrus had once worked as doctors, police officers, formed bands like U2, and helped design the iPod, this world, or this version of it, everything that the Vampyrus achieved, every little influence that they had, is now down to the Lycanthrope.”
“So what does that exactly mean?” I asked him, sensing his concern — or was it fear?
“It means we’re in deep shit!” he snapped. “The Lycanthrope are killers…” he started.
“But maybe they’re different now,” I said, but not really believing it myself. “Maybe they’re not a race of serial killers…”
“Yeah and perhaps the tooth fairy really exists,” Potter growled. “They can’t help themselves, you should know that — you were murdered by one of them — Jack Seth killed you, remember?”
“He had no choice,” I said, pulling Potter close.
“And that’s what I’m trying to tell you, Kiera. They have no choice. They kill, that’s what they do. Even though Seth must have known that by killing you he would die beneath The Hollows, he still couldn’t resist you. He couldn’t stop the urge of ripping you to pieces,” he said, taking my face gently in his strong hands.
“But you can’t be sure that they are still killing,” I said. “The humans wouldn’t put up with it.”
“What if they didn’t have a choice?” he asked me. “What if the humans had struck some kind of deal with the Lycanthrope?”
“Why would they do that?” I asked him.
“Perhaps the Lycanthrope didn’t give them a choice,” he said, his eyes growing dark. “And we all know how they keep to their word. Remember the deal that they struck with Murphy? Look what happened to him. They killed him.”
I looked at Potter and I could see that anger, frustration, and hurt in his eyes again as he remembered how Murphy had been betrayed. “What would Murphy say if he were standing here right now?” I asked him.
With a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Potter said, “Let’s go and catch us some wolf.” Then the smile faded and he added, “But Murphy isn’t here any longer. There are no Vampyrus left — it’s like they never existed. I am all that is left of them.”
“So what are you going to do?” I asked him, hoping that some of his fight was coming back — that spark which had drawn me to him in the first place.
“I’m going to stop them,” he said. “That’s what I did before, with Murphy and Lu…that’s all I know — it’s what I do best.”
“But there is only you left.” I pushed him. “How are you going to do it all on your own?”
Then, turning his back to me, he went to the corner of the summerhouse and reappeared with a holdall in his hands. He threw it at me. I snatched it from the air.
“What’s this?” I asked him.
“You said that you missed your old life, that you wanted to be Kiera Hudson again,” he half-smiled and his jet-black eyes twinkled. “So I went and got you some of your stuff from your flat.”
“It’s still there?” I asked him, wondering if parts of my old life had been pushed too.
“Kind of,” he said, lighting a cigarette, watching me unzip the bag.
“What’s that mean?” I asked him.
“Your flat is four streets along now,” he said. “At first I couldn’t understand why your underwear drawer was full of thick, old woolly knickers and bras that the SAS would have been happy to use as parachutes. Then the old woman started whacking me with her walking stick.”
“Old lady?” I laughed. “What old lady?”
“The old lady who lives in your flat, the flat that you used to live in before everything got pushed,” he explained. “She caught me rifling through her knickers — I thought they were yours. Anyway
she whacks me over the head and calls me kinky. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t kinky and she said she was going to call the cops.”
“So what did you do?” I said, my hand over my mouth as I tried to stifle a fit of the giggles.
“I ran, that’s what I did,” he snapped, unable to see the funny side of the story. “And don’t you dare breathe a word of this to Isidor. I’m fed up already with him calling me Gabriel every five minutes.”
“I promise,” I said, unable to hide my laughter anymore.
“It’s not funny,” he barked. “I didn’t have to go and get that stuff for you.”
I looked in the bag and could see that it was full of my own clothes, underwear, perfumes, make-up. Just beneath a pile of T-shirts, I found a photograph of my father. I brushed the tips of my fingers over his face.
“I thought you might like that,” Potter said softly, coming to kneel next to me on the floor. “There was a picture of your mother, but I didn’t bring it. Apart from her ripping my heart out, I didn’t think you would want…”
“The picture of my dad is enough,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
As if sensing the picture of my dad was upsetting me, Potter reached inside the bag and said, “And look what else I found.”
“What?” I whispered unable to take my eyes from the picture of my dad.
“Your police badge,” he said, waving it before me.
I placed the picture gently back into the bag and took my badge from Potter. Constable Hudson it read in silver letters on the front. “Why did you bring this back with you?” I asked him.
“You said that you missed being a copper,” he said. “And besides, if you’re going to start investigating stuff again, I thought it might come in handy. You never know.”
“But I thought you said the whole Miss Marple thing was a waste of time,” I said, looking at him.
“That’s before I realised the Lycanthrope were back,” he said. Then, taking my hands in his, he said, “Kiera we’ve got to find out what they are up to. And if they are still killing, somehow we’ve got to find a way of stopping them.”
“Just like the old days, huh?” I said, staring down at my badge again.
“Me and you, Kiera,” he whispered. “The old team back together.”
“Kayla?” I asked him.
“Of course,” Potter smiled. “It wouldn’t be the same without her whingeing.”
“Isidor?”
“Don’t push your luck,” he groaned. “He can stay here and look after the manor — you know, a bit like Alfred from the Batman comics.”
“No Isidor, no team,” I said, staring straight at him.
“Okay,” he said, throwing his hands up into the air as if in surrender. “But I promise you, one more wisecrack from him about my name and…”
“Why did you go and get my stuff for me?” I cut over him.
“Why not?” he shrugged.
“Tell me the truth,” I asked him.
“Because you wanted it and I couldn’t bear to see you so unhappy, Kiera,” he said. “You haven’t been the same since you came back.”
“Neither have you,” I said.
“I know I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t have a reason for being here — I didn’t have a fight,” he explained.
“And now that you’ve got the Lycanthrope to hunt, you feel happy?” I asked him.
“Isn’t a fight just what you’ve been looking for, too?” he came back at me. “Isn’t that what this whole setting yourself up as an investigator thing is all about? You’re looking for trouble. Kiera, me and you are the same. We need a fight in our lives.”
“Is that all you need?” I asked him.
“No,” he whispered, bringing his face within inches of mine.
“What else then?”
“This,” he said, ripping my shirt open with one quick swipe of his claws, and pushing me down onto the floor.
Chapter Thirteen
Kiera
For the first time since returning from the dead, we made love together. We took our time. It wasn’t rushed or frantic like it had been in the caves, below the Fountain of Souls. And for the first time, there weren’t those guilty thoughts which had plagued me for so long about Luke. He was now gone from my life and forgotten. Even my fears about those cracks that had appeared on my skin slipped to the back of my mind as I lay back on the floor of the summerhouse. Potter was unusually gentle, covering my face, neck, shoulders, breasts, and stomach with soft kisses. There was no music either, just the sound of the rain drumming against the summerhouse roof and the gentle rise and fall of our breathing.
“I love you, Kiera,” he whispered against my cheek as he lowered himself onto me.
“I love you too,” I smiled, running my hands through his untidy hair. I dug my fingernails into the small of his back and there was a sudden urge to completely let go, but I couldn’t, just in case those cracks in my dead flesh appeared. So, closing my eyes, I arched my back slightly, as he gripped my wrists and pinned me to the floor. He pressed his mouth over mine and I could feel his fangs with the tip of my tongue. They felt sharp, and I gasped slightly as I felt the warm sensation of my own blood spill over my tongue. The coppery taste of it in the back of my throat felt sweet and my whole body shivered beneath him.
He felt me tremor and whispered, “You want the red stuff, don’t you?”
With my arms and legs entwined around him, I murmured the word, “Yes.”
Then, positioning his neck so it brushed over my lips, Potter said, “Well drink then, it’s not as if you can kill me, Kiera.”
I could smell him against me, but more than that, I could smell the blood beneath his skin. It made my head spin, and even though I didn’t have a heart, I could feel a beating starting to build throughout my body. It started in my head, then to my chest, fingertips, and toes. As the beating grew faster and more intense, so did my desire to pierce his skin with my own fangs. But if I did, would those cracks in my flesh appear? Did it matter if they did? Did I really care anymore? All I wanted was to bite him — sink my teeth into him as he made love to me.
And as he moved gently over me, I could feel my claws growing from the tips of my fingers and I dragged them down the length of his back. He sighed and moved faster. I could feel the warm sensation of his blood beneath my claws and the smell was intoxicating. It filled the air like the sweetest of scents. The beating inside me got faster and I pulled him down on top of me, never wanting to let him go. It was like I wanted to be a part of him somehow. It was like our lovemaking wasn’t enough — it didn’t bring us close enough.
With my head spinning and feeling more alive than I’d had when I was living, and my skin feeling as if it was on fire, I lunged forwards and sank my teeth into his neck. His blood gushed into my mouth. I’d only ever been drunk once before and the sensation I now felt was similar to that. It was like feeling tipsy — the initial happy, giddy feeling you get before you have too much and start to feel ill.
As I sucked away at his neck, I could feel my wings spreading open beneath me and for one awful moment those pictures of me standing in front of the mirror in my room, cracked and broken-looking, swam before me. I opened my eyes and looked at my arms which were wrapped about Potter’s shoulders. But instead of the cracks, my skin almost seemed to shine — glow. It was as if taking his blood was somehow revitalising me, like rubbing moisturiser into dry skin.
I closed my eyes again, the soft feel of my wings beneath me making it feel as if we were making love on a soft bed of feathers. Entwining his fingers with mine, Potter raised my arms above my head, and kissed my breasts, never stopping moving above me. A thin trickle of his blood ran from the corner of my mouth; seeing this, Potter licked it away with the tip of his tongue. Then, without warning, he buried his face into my neck and I felt his fangs pierce my flesh.
I cried out. It didn’t hurt, not really. If it did, I doubted that I would have
felt it anyway. My body felt as if it was on the brink of bursting with ecstasy and there was nothing that could have drowned out that feeling. It was like a madness had overtaken me and I would let him take as much of my blood as he wanted — needed. And when I started to feel lightheaded and that spinning feeling came back, I sank my teeth back into his neck and let his blood gush into my mouth.
It was then, as we made love on the floor, drinking from each other, I realised that we had become one and the feeling of pleasure was almost unbearable. Our lovemaking then took on an eagerness that was like a ravenous hunger until we both collapsed in each other’s arms.
I rested my head against Potter’s chest as he drew in breath. Just as my body had seemed to thump, so did his. I could hear the blood gushing through his veins. But I didn’t want it now. The thirst for it — the lust for it — had gone. It was like I had been thirsty but now my thirst had been quenched.
“That was wrong,” I whispered against him.
“Was it?” he said back. “I thought it was…”
“I don’t mean it like that,” I told him.
“What did you mean?” he asked, rolling onto his side and staring into my eyes. His eyes were black and I could read nothing in them.
“Making love with you is like nothing else,” I said, breaking his gaze and running my fingertips across his hard, flat stomach. “But the blood thing — I promised myself that I wouldn’t take the red stuff…that I would try and beat it.”
“I don’t think it’s there to be broken,” Potter said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s what we are…it’s what you are,” he whispered. “Taking blood now is as natural as breathing air. But I guess it’s more important to us, as technically we’re dead and we don’t need air to survive. But we do need blood…”
“I don’t need it,” I cut over him, the fear of becoming addicted to the red stuff scaring me.
“Are you so sure?” Potter asked, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”